


Cruel

by rehaniah



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games)
Genre: Dark fic, F/M, Psychological Manipulation, Sexual Content, mature content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehaniah/pseuds/rehaniah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I believe he is quite sane. Just evil.” Crane/OC. Based on Arkham Asylum’s rendition of Jonathan Crane. Warnings: DARK FIC containing psychological manipulation and mature content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruel

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Dark Fic. Psychological Manipulation. Smut.
> 
> A/N: Okay, so I've had this sat on my harddrive for a long while now, due in large part to the fact that I think the subject matter is too disturbing for it to be… I don't know, 'welcomed'? In my defence, I do think Crane is portrayed as an extremely demonic presence in Arkham Asylum and that interpretation just kind of grew in my mind into this little ditty… Obviously, if I get a bunch of reviews along the lines of 'What a horrible concept – this shouldn't ever see the light of day!' then I will respectfully take the fic down once more and consign it back to the dark and shadowy recesses of my computer! 
> 
> If you're still willing to give it a go though, even after reading this note, then I do hope you find some entertainment from it!
> 
> Note: Have used the idea from 'Batman Begins' that, before he went insane, Crane was head Psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. Also, I've used creative licence to work under the (invented) assumption that Crane can retract and extend the needles on his glove to different lengths. Why is that important? Well... you'll see (author looks away guiltily)...

Cruel

She gets back to her apartment later than normal.

There had been a queue at the little corner store where she always brought her groceries. An unusual occurrence, particularly at 7.30pm which was half an hour before they closed and the time that Natasha always did her shopping – when there was hardly anyone about. But today there'd been a group of six guys who'd been milling around, taking their time at the checkout and who'd kept on rushing back to the shelves and returning with more items for the serving girl to tot up. Natasha hadn't liked them; there'd been too many of them and they'd been too loud. In fact, when she'd walked in and first seen them, she'd almost fled back to the safety of her apartment… But then she'd realised that since she had to work the next day and because she couldn't cope with going to two different places in one day, she would've had to wait until Saturday night to get her shopping, and she was running rather low on necessities.

So she'd forced herself to go round the shelves, keeping her head down and her eyes on the ground as she'd picked up what she'd needed.

The checkout girl had tried to entice some form of interaction out of her, but Natasha had been left on edge by the unexpected appearance of so many other customers and had only managed to dredge up the faintest of smiles to the chipper attendant – who'd looked on with something like pity at the small, strange girl who frequented the store every week on a Wednesday and Sunday night like clockwork.

Afterwards, Natasha had hurried back to her apartment, keeping her head down and counting the ninety-seven steps it took to reach the door of her complex.

She makes herself breathe deeply several times as she stands just inside her door, reassuring herself: _You're home now. It's alright, you're home now._

After her heart rate has slowed to a less frantic pace, she walks to the kitchen and carefully puts the tins and packets away in their designated spaces.

Then, before she does anything else, she walks into her bedroom and sits down on the edge of her bed. She picks up the small blue notebook from the bedside table and unhooks the pen from the spiral binding.

She finds the correct place and dutifully writes down her achievements for the day, just like she does every night:

_-Woke up peacefully – didn't have nightmares._

_-Did laundry._

_-Read three chapters of my book._

_-Cleaned apartment – only used half a bottle of bleach._

_-Had healthy lunch._

_-Went to store._

_-Coped with six unknown people who were also doing their shopping._

_-Smiled at checkout girl._ (Even if it was only miniscule, it was still an achievement and something that she felt she should write down.)

_-Arrived home later than usual – managed not to get upset._

Her pen hovered over the page. She was normally able to write that she hadn't given in to the compulsion to count anything that wasn't strictly necessary, but she couldn't write that today because she'd counted her footsteps on the way home as a calmative measure after the store incident…

She gives a quiet sigh and closes the book, ensuring to hook the pen down to the fourth ring on the spiral binding.

"You're doing quite well, dear."

She gives a choked scream and leaps off the bed, throwing herself against the wall as her eyes dart wildly towards the shadows at the far end of her room.

One particular shadow peels itself away from the others, stepping into the pool of light cast by the small bedside lamp.

"D-Doctor Crane," she stutters around the now-frenzied pounding of her heart.

Not many people would greet the man currently dressed in tattered brown cloth and a burlap mask as 'Doctor', his appearance alone making him resemble anything but. The way Natasha's mind worked, however, wasn't like most people's, and she had only ever called the man before her by the title, _Doctor Crane_. After all, he was the doctor she'd known since she was fourteen, the one who'd helped her, the _only one_ who'd been able to help her.

It had been eleven months since she'd last seen him…

She looks back into the ice-blue eyes, only just visible through the dark holes of his mask. He makes a show of glancing around her bedroom. Then he continues in an analytical tone,

"You're continuing to manage on your own. You're keeping the journal I instructed you to."

He begins to walk towards her, slowly, talking steadily. Natasha feels her body beginning to calm again as his words ( _his praise?_ ) soothe their way into her head. He's always known how to calm her down. There's the tiniest of voices in the very back of her mind which points out that he was the one who scared her to start with, but she turns away from that voice. He's told her time and again that that voice is bad for her, that that voice is the reason why she's… not like everyone else.

"Y-You read it?" she asks, hesitantly, catching up with his previous statement. She doesn't mind him reading her journal – he would read it before when she would go to see him in his office – but she still feels anxious.

"Of course. I am your doctor after all," he replies patiently, finally reaching and standing before her. He's not that much taller than her, only an inch or so. He continues looking into her eyes.

"A-And I'm doing well?" she questions tremulously.

"It would seem so," he replies evenly, his blank tone revealing neither pleasure nor displeasure at her progress.

She suddenly notices the device strapped around his right hand. He often made new additions to his outfit, but she hadn't seen anything quite like that before. "What's that?" she asks him quietly.

The doctor looks down himself at his latest invention. Raising it, he turns it around in the light, his eyes bright in clear admiration of his work. "A new treatment method I designed," he pronounces. Then his eyes snap back to Natasha's, "Would you like to try it?" He brings the glimmering points to rest against the column of her neck, running the thin, claw-like needles up and down, almost teasingly, although she can clearly see the gleam of excitement in his eyes.

"I-Is it like the others?" Natasha asks fearfully, remembering the other treatments he had given her when she'd had her sessions with him at Arkham Asylum. He'd always said that they were designed to help her, that it was important that he try them so that he could determine which one suited her, so that he could adjust the formula for the 'best result'. She hadn't been able to remember much after the first doses, only darkness and an obscure sense of intense fear. He'd said that this reaction was no good because she'd needed to specifically _face her fears_ if she was ever to overcome them. He wanted her to remember what she experienced while the dose was still in her system, not have some indistinct recollection or even worse, pass out, which had happened several times to begin with. She hadn't liked the treatments, not one bit, but he'd told her that it was helping him cure her and so she'd endured it… And carried on enduring it whenever he would deem it 'necessary' for her…

"No," he says after a long pause, in answer to her question. He runs the needles up and down again, his eyes greedily taking in the expression on her face.

Even though he'd said no, his answer does not make her feel any better.

She really doesn't want another treatment, but she knows that if she says that, he'll probably give her one anyway, as punishment for her thinking she knew better than him. It's happened before.

His eyes glitter down at her as he waits for her response. She knows she has to say something.

"I… I trust you to do… whatever's best for me… Doctor Crane," she finally replies.

The needles pause as he tilts his head to the side, contemplating. Then the needles compress together and she braces herself for the inevitable horror–

But then he removes them, drawing them away slowly to his side. She tries not to show just how relieved she is.

"It's good to know you haven't forgotten that, Natasha," he says gravely.

He gazes at her intently before turning his head to the side, looking round at her bedroom once more, taking in the obsessive neatness and the lingering scent of bleach and disinfectant.

While his head is turned away, she takes the opportunity to unobtrusively observe him... She blinks as she notices the cut on his upper arm. It looked deep; red blood had dried and cracked round it. Now that she looked closer, she saw that his clothes were dirty and torn, as though he'd been in some kind of fight or struggle...

She remembers something that she'd seen on her way home from work last week, and the fact that it had been so long since she'd last seen him…

Unintentionally she finds herself asking softly, "Are you in trouble, Doctor Crane?"

His head immediately jerks back round to face her, his gaze turning razor sharp, piercing into her and freezing her in place.

"Why would you ask that?" he asks in a very deliberate tone. A tone that sends a shiver up her spine.

She looks away.

"You haven't been watching the news have you, Natasha?" he questions reproachfully, stepping close to her once more. "I specifically instructed you _not_ to do that. You know that it only upsets you. _It will make you worse_. You don't want to go back to how you were _before_ , do you? How you were before you came to me?"

She turns back to him with wide eyes of both sincerity and anxiousness: "N-No, Doctor Crane, I don't want that. And I haven't watched anything, I promise."

The news does upset her; all that pain and suffering and distress. It makes her fearful, makes her… _bad_ … She doesn't have a television in her apartment but on her way home last week she'd inadvertently caught sight of a newspaper that had been dropped on the sidewalk and before she'd realised what she was doing her eyes had read the headline: _'Scarecrow attack on downtown Gotham. Hundreds of containers seized from warehouse.'_

The needles return to her neck once more and she feels her chest constricting,

"Then why did you ask, hmm?" Doctor Crane murmurs darkly, unrelentingly holding her eyes with his own. "Why did you ask if I was in trouble?"

"I – I'm sorry," she whispers fretfully as an involuntary tear leaks out of her eye and down her cheek.

The needles tighten. "That's an _apology_ , Natasha. Not an _answer_ , like I asked for," he tells her coldly.

"I – I saw…" another tear slides down.

"What did you _see_ , Natasha?"

"O-On my way h-home… There was a newspaper… It – it said that there'd been an attack…" Fear withers away the rest of her sentence.

"An attack?" he presses, urging her to continue, the needles giving a warning squeeze.

"A-An attack b-by… Scarecrow," the last word was hushed, as though it was some kind of forbidden secret that was never to be spoken aloud.

"By _Scarecrow_ ," he repeats in a sibilant hiss. He closes the diminutive gap between them, gazing deep into her eyes as he demands, "And do you think I _attacked_ them Natasha? Do you think I deserve to be… _punished_ for trying to _help_ them?"

"No–no, Doctor Crane," she answers immediately.

"All I'm doing is giving them a deeper understanding of themselves. All I'm trying to do is my _research_ , Natasha. Do you think that's _wrong_?"

She sobs audibly as the needles begin to fully constrict her airway with their icy touch. "N-No, Doctor Crane, I've never thought that–please," she begs, her fingers scrabbling uselessly against the unyielding contraption covering his hand. "Please, I know that your research is important – I know that people don't understand!" Tears are blurring her vision, clogging up her already-blocked throat...

But then, suddenly, she feels the pressure being released.

She can't help but sag forward, her whole body weak and shaking as she gasps in breath after breath, her legs trembling drastically.

She feels his hand – the one without the needles – come to rest on her head. She instinctively tenses, unsure of what he's going to do, but his voice has reverted back to a smooth tone; the tone that he uses to calm her, or when she's done something right. Gliding his palm over her hair, he murmurs down to her.

"You're right, Natasha. _They_ don't understand. They don't understand how important my work is, the progress I'm trying to make…" He continues stroking her hair as his soft voice floats down. Slowly she feels the tension in her body lessening, pushed back under his influence. "But you understand, don't you, Natasha?" He raises her head up so that she's looking into his eyes once more, those bright blue eyes that see so much, that see _everything_ , "You understand why it's necessary to do what I do, don't you?"

She blinks up at him. "Yes, Doctor Crane," she whispers.

"My dear girl," he murmurs back, sounding… _pleased_ , she thinks. He runs his fingers down her cheek. "You've always been such a good patient, Natasha. You understand how my methods work and how they help those less enlightened. Speaking of which…" His fingers leave her cheek to float down her neck until they reach her breasts, ghosting over one and then the other as he speaks, "I think there's another _method_ that we haven't made use of in a while."

Any previous calm seems to leak away again at his obvious meaning.

She blinks. "I-I'm not s-sure," she protests, almost inaudibly.

"Come now, dear," he chides, "You know that this is something regular people do. And it _has_ been a long time. It will do you good to experience it again."

"W-With you?" she asks, feeling the need for clarification.

A definite edge enters his voice, the words abruptly sharpening like a scythe, "Of course with me. You know I'm the only one qualified to help you. You wouldn't trust _anyone else_ to do this, would you?" he demands.

"N-No, Doctor Crane," she assures earnestly. It's true she's never done this with anyone but him – _would_ never do this with anyone but him. In all honesty, she doesn't really like it. She doesn't like to feel as though she's not in control of her own body and always experiences the overwhelming urge to clean herself thoroughly each time after it happens – which sometimes he will allow her to do, and other times he won't. Nevertheless, he is the one who knows what is best for her, who _has always_ and _will always_ know what is best for her…

"Good," he decrees, his voice reverting back to its previous softness but continuing to retain that hint of ice.

Then he directs, "Take off my mask."

She sees her hands shaking as they rise. He remains perfectly still. She hesitates a moment, remembering the order she has to use in order to remove his coverings.

She starts by pushing the hood back from his head, gently, her fingers brushing against the coarser material underneath.

The hood falls away. She then takes hold of the rough burlap, ensuring not to touch the metal gas filters attached to its sides. Very carefully, she lifts the mask up and off his head, uncovering the face of the man that she remembers sitting behind his large desk at Arkham. The man her mother had brought her to because he was 'the best in the field', the only one knowledgeable enough to help her.

They watch each other. Natasha holds the fabric unsurely in her hands, its structure limp and lifeless now. She looks at him, at his features. His eyes, the same blue as a winter sky, less shadowed now that they weren't surrounded. His hair, a deep, rich brown that seemed almost red in some lights, fell haphazardly from his hairline to lie across his high forehead. His skin was pale – always so very, very pale – and served to accentuate the darkness of the eyebrows and eyelashes that rose above gaunt cheekbones.

Doctor Crane.

Her Doctor, her Guide, her Saviour. All of these things he called himself whilst helping her, whilst showing her the way to a 'healthier mind'. Her mother had wanted her daughter to be helped so badly, had been willing to pay any amount of money in order to do so, which was how Natasha had wound up with a doctor who hardly ever saw patients outside of his own asylum. And Doctor Crane had said that he would be able to help her, that he would be able to fix her mind. And he had… she thinks…

But there's a part of her – that tiny, tiny part, that _bad_ part of her – that when she's not careful thinks that instead of fixing her mind… all he did was break it further…

And now, she cannot break free of him. Partly because he made her turn away from everything she'd ever known but mostly because she does not know how to live without him. She _is_ terrified of him... But she is far more terrified of the world beyond that which he keeps her in, for he is the reason she has a job, an apartment, freedom. He arranged them all for her because he claimed that her family were the reason she was so ill, that her life – the life of the rich and wealthy, born into privilege as she had been – was the cause of her problems and that she needed to break free from then if she wanted to save herself. _So she had_. She had followed his instructions to the letter and alienated herself from all that she'd ever known…

But none of that matters, not really… Because she has him. That's what he tells her; _that he is all she has and all she needs._ And even though she will often go for months without seeing him, she knows that he will always return to her, in one form or another.

He watches her face avidly, scrutinising every thought, every emotion behind her eyes.

He reaches out the hand not obscured by the contraption of needles and runs the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Another shiver crawls up her body at their coldness.

His hand falls away and he takes hold of the mask, pulling it out of her unresisting grasp and leaning over to place it on the dresser that's just behind her.

He straightens up again.

"Now the rest," he tells her, his voice sounding less distorted now that the mask wasn't in place, but no less commanding.

She reaches out again to take hold of the patchwork leather that makes up the uppermost part of his suit before realising that she needs to undo the rope ( _noose…_ ) around his neck first. She feels embarrassed – she'd made the same mistake last time they were together like this – but he doesn't say anything as her hands reposition themselves on the thick, entwined rope.

She stares in concentration as she works out which side she has to pull on to loosen it, but soon enough the knot slides down and she can lift it away.

Since he provides her with no instruction on what to do with it, she decides to place it atop her dresser, alongside the mask.

She goes back to the stitched cloth and removes it with a gentle care.

The top part of his body is revealed to her, almost emaciated in its thinness. Thick veins, tinted with blue and green, protrude from the pallid skin that stretches tautly over bone and diminutive muscle. Natasha has never known him to look any different, but she does find herself worrying sometimes, reasoning that it can't be healthy for someone to be as thin as he is. She doesn't feel able to question him on it though.

He holds out his left arm and her fingers go to work on the buckle that rests halfway between his shoulder and his elbow, holding the long glove in place.

The material is removed and automatically she reaches for the buckle on the right glove, the one that lead to the treatment system. His voice halts her:

"Not that, dear... I'll need that." The words are ominous and she looks to him in apprehension.

"Continue," is all he says in response to her gaze. She does so…

When she's done, he removes her clothes, though his hands hold none of the hesitancy or gentleness that hers had.

He doesn't say anything to her as he methodically removes her layers piece by piece. Once she's as bare as him, he presses his body against her own. His skin is cold and clammy.

He takes hold of the back of her head and firmly crushes his lips against hers. The kiss is rough; not just in physical pressure, but in fluidity as well. Very occasionally, she finds herself wondering just how much experience Doctor Crane had in situations such as these, since sometimes his actions would seem… as though he wasn't overly sure about what he was doing.

But even if he was inexperienced, she was even more so.

He walks her backwards until her knees hit the edge of the bed. Then he pushes her down and unhesitatingly climbs on top of her.

He situates himself between her legs, placing them either side of his hard, bony hips.

He looks down at her body, his head tilting to the side. She feels tense and self-conscious, even though he's seen it all before.

After a studying moment, he then raises his un-gloved fingers and places them unerringly at the centre of her neck, causing her breathing to automatically stutter. But he doesn't squeeze, just runs calloused fingertips down... Down over her chest, her stomach, until he reaches her womanhood, which he cups in his palm. The way he holds it feels possessive almost, like he's trying to hide it all.

Then she feels the tips of his middle and third finger circle round her dry opening.

"Have you missed me, Natasha?" he murmurs into the silent stillness of the room.

"Yes, Doctor Crane," she whispers. Because it's true, she has missed him. She always misses him when he's not around. He makes everything seem… so much more simple. He knows her so well, knows what she can and can't cope with, what she should and shouldn't do. When she gets agitated, or afraid, he knows what to say to calm her down. Her mind listens to him, whereas it won't listen to her... _not anymore_ …

She lets out a small gasp as his bony fingers enter her. He then uses his thumb and forefinger to find that part of her higher up, that small centre of nerves that manages to make this act bearable, pleasurable perhaps.

He manipulates both parts, drawing his fingers in and out whilst simultaneously arousing the pearl-like bud up above, skirting round it, making her body tremble with a sensation that is both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time.

He leans over her as her breathing accelerates and unbidden sounds rise into her throat. He stares down at her as his fingers continue working. There's no hint of emotion on his face. He observes her clinically, noting her expressions with a scientific curiosity and nothing more. She would like to reach out to him, to hold onto him perhaps, but she's done so before and he's made clear that he doesn't appreciate such contact.

The sensations build, becoming stronger as her body yields to him. She finds herself becoming lost in the haze that rises to surround her, her eyelids fluttering closed–

But then suddenly they snap open again as, instead of the feel of his fingers, she feels the icy touch of metal at her now-pulsing core. She jerks her head down to see that he's moved his other hand – the one with the treatment glove – to her entrance. And then, to her horror, she feels him holding her lower lips apart, spreading them so that he can insert… _One of the needles!_

"Wait – wh-what are you doing?!" she whispers frantically. Her body is beyond tense, instinctively wanting to scramble away – _but the needle_ …

His gaze was no longer on her face. Now his eyes were focused downward, watching avidly as he continues to slide the single needle into her passage, but the cold orbs do glance up as he speaks.

"Don't move. If you do, the needle will pierce your skin and the toxin will enter your blood stream."

"N-no–" she begs pleadingly as she continues to feel the awful, inhuman touch down below. He continues as if she said nothing, his voice becoming darker, more malevolent:

"And you remember what that sensation feels like, don't you, dear?" His eyes glitter.

"Please," she whispers to him helplessly.

"Shhh," he whispers back, but rather than anything resembling comfort, the tone is completely sinister.

She feels the cylinder, the container that housed the dreadful formula, reach her entrance and then that too is being pushed up into her. She whimpers at the feel of the cold emanating off the metal, pulsating against the searing heat of her inner recesses. She wants to tell him to stop, to take it out, but her throat is closed up, choked from the too-many sensations warring within her. She can barely breathe, let alone speak. And ultimately, the rational part of her mind knows it will do no good anyway... For she understands what kind of man he is; if ever such an inhumane being could be defined as a 'man'...

She feels tears leak out of both corners of her eyes.

His other hand moves higher up now, his fingers searching out and finding her nub once more. Because of the sensitised state her body was already in, it only takes a small swipe of his thumb to make the pleasure spike through her nerves again. Her head arches back as her whole body trembles...

But she can't move.

She has to continue to keep herself in the exact same position, not shifting the slightest bit lest the needle inside pierce her...

Her leg muscles are straining with the effort of holding her lower half up. He moves the apparatus slightly and her taut muscles tense anew. But he doesn't press further in, instead he moves his finger in a circular motion so that thin cylinder of the needle brushes against the overheated walls of her channel, the contrast making her cry out,

"A-ah!" she gasps as her body involuntarily shivers. Above the pitiable sounds that are being ripped from her, she hears him give a sharp intake of breath. Knowing that it's caused by excitement – _excitement at seeing her body almost injected with his_ _toxin_ – she immediately seizes up her muscles again, forcing her body to keep absolutely still, clenching her toes and hands into the bed sheets with the effort.

"You're getting better at controlling yourself, at making your body do what you want," he tells her in the analytical tone that he uses when discussing a test subject. Almost immediately his fingers reach out to tease her clitoris again.

She can no longer hold in the sounds that come from her, though they're not sounds of pleasure anymore – there's no way that the sensations she's feeling now could be described as such. But then this was never about _her_ pleasure; it was about his. It just happened that he didn't get his pleasure the way other men did…

He presses the cylinder in deeper as his fingers become harsh in their determination, stimulating her raw flesh so that her body has no choice but to finally succumb–

She shrieks as the orgasm tears through her and it is only some primal part of her mind – some inbuilt survival instinct – that enables her legs to continue to hold her up. Though they strain in near agony at doing so, she doesn't let them fall…

She breathes in great gasping breathes as the orgasm fades, her body shaking but not in fear… Not in fear… _She'd done it: She hadn't been injected._

She looks down, panting, as he slowly removes the intrusion from within her. He holds the needle up to light, turning it this way and that before saying reproachfully,

"You got my equipment wet."

She feels the unpleasant combination of hot embarrassment and cold shame wash over her as she too sees the slippery coating on the metal, glistening slickly in the light.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, being unable to say anything else.

His gaze moves back to her and the cruelty in his eyes lessens just slightly as his head tilts to the side, observing her with a small smile,

"It's alright, dear, I know you couldn't help it," he says with a benign expression.

He finally removes the glove, meticulously undoing the clasps and buckles that hold it in place before leaning across to set it carefully down on her bedside table. She watches as he arranges the needles orderly.

He then bends down and takes hold of her chin between his now-naked fingers.

He presses his lips to hers, cold and firm, but the kiss itself is soft – _so very soft_ – and gentle, contradicting everything that has happened previously. She responds neither better nor worse to this display of tenderness for she accepts all his touches, no matter what form they come in.

Once he's satisfied he pulls away, taking one last deep breath directly against her lips, as if to steal the very air that she breathes.

Then, without any form of warning, he drives himself inside her, hard and hot and so very unlike the needle.

She's not ready and her body feels too tender, but it doesn't matter, not really. Because it only takes a few thrusts and then his body is shuddering, eyes closing as he lets out a breathless hiss.

There's a warmth that blooms out within her belly and then he is sliding out, flaccid and spent.

He moves his slight body to lie down beside her, one thin arm wrapping itself around her waist as she turns over to lie on her side. He prefers having her back to him. She's never asked why.

They lie quietly for several minutes. She can feel viscous liquid smeared on her inner thigh. A scent – _her scent_ – hangs heavy in the darkened room, tainting the air. The familiar urge wells up inside her to clean, to clean both herself and her surroundings. She wants to scrub away at her skin until it's hers again, wants to remove the smell in the air… But the memory is too fresh in her mind… And she doesn't want to ask him if she can wash, just in case it angers him. Just in case it means that she needs another treatment…

Instead she continues to lie there, and tries very hard not to think about it. Not to think about anything.

After a time, she hears the faint sound of sirens in the distance. Her eyes rise slightly to look towards the window. She knows without a doubt that it's him the police are looking for.

The arm around her waist tightens, thin fingers digging into the supple skin of her stomach.

"Hide me," are the only words whispered into her ear; the same words that she hears every time he seeks her out, every time he needs to lie low for a while after 'something' happens. Something to do with the police or Batman, or anyone really. Honestly, she doesn't know why he even says the phrase anymore. They both know what her response will be.

"Always." Her voice quivers and there's a single tear that flows out of her eye to soak into the pillow beneath, but the words are true. _Always_ true.

The arm gives a squeeze, the dark reflection of an embrace. Dry, cool lips rise ever-so-slightly to press against her temple. She feels just one more tear leak out from under her eyelid to join the other on the pillow...

She falls asleep to the sound of a steady heartbeat at her back.

*/*/*/*/*

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know, I know – I'm sick, right? :'S


End file.
